The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (best books to read for women TXT) 📕

while I see to the door. Your room, at least for tonight, is on the first floor at the back of the house. It’s dark, but comfortable. Follow me.”

John bounded down the stairs, his jacket flowing around him. Emma was somewhat in awe of his agility despite his size. At the landing, he pointed to a closed door down the hall.

“Let me see who this is. Put away your things and I’ll knock when I’m done.”

Emma nodded and walked toward the room. Her curiosity about the caller got the better of her and she looked back as the doctor opened the door.

A soldier, clad in a buttoned service jacket, trousers, puttees, and ankle boots stood in the fading light. Fine strands of blond hair fell across his forehead when he removed his service cap. The soldier extended his hand to the doctor in greeting and then stopped as if startled by an apparition, his eyes widening and then shrinking, and as if blinded by something he had seen. He pulled the scarf concealing the bottom half of his face tighter and lowered his head.

The soldier’s face unnerved her, leading her to think that perhaps her presence, an unknown woman in a place he had visited before, must have disturbed him. When she reached her room, she looked over her shoulder. The man’s eyes bored into her as he followed John up the stairs.

Entry: 19th August, 1917

My journal appears no worse for wear after its voyage across the Atlantic. I suppose I shall open it from time to time to record my thoughts. It has become an old friend—one steadfast and reliable.

I feel sequestered here in John’s house. He is a demanding man, but not quite the ogre that Virginie makes him out to be. He can’t be all bad; how could he, doing the service he does? I think his jabs are a game. He torments Virginie (and the rest of his staff) in order to make her stronger. War is not for the faint of heart. But underneath John’s gruff exterior lies a decent and caring soul. The thought of his return to England frightens me a bit. I will need Virginie’s help, along with others, in order for my work to succeed.

I’ve had little time to think, to rest. John is relentless in his teaching and pushes me each day to learn more. I think of Tom on occasion, but not as often as I should, causing sporadic bursts of guilt. The studio has taken over my life. Of course, I imagine the same is true for Tom—once he was transported here, his surgical duties consumed him. I should be upset he hasn’t telephoned me. However, he could say the same. I know his work is as demanding as his devotion to the Hippocratic Oath. Sometimes, I think he’s like a boy playing doctor whose world has become violently real. But I’m ashamed when I fault a good man. American doctors are needed in France.

I admire his willingness to serve.

My lack of attention to my husband has caused me some guilt. Under John’s tutelage, I’ve remembered the faces I’ve seen since arriving in France: the child at Le Tonneau, the woman who sat across from me on the train, the injured soldier who struggled to walk on crutches in the compartment, the soldier who appeared at John’s front door.

Each of these faces triggers a memory—one I’d rather forget.

“I told you so!” Virginie pounded her fist against the green truck’s side panel as the rain pooled above her on the tarpaulin roof. “You have ruined Madame’s visit to her husband.”

John grimaced. “Hush up and climb in front with us! You’ll catch your death.” He turned to Emma. “She has one talent—predicting the weather. Damn this wretched rain.” The tires spun furiously in the mud, sending an ear-piercing whine shrieking through the vehicle.

They were more than three-quarters of the way to Toul when the truck became mired on the muddy road. Emma had fought a case of nerves for most of the trip in anticipation of her meeting with Tom. Would they even recognize each other? Would he be the same person who left her in Boston nearly a half year ago?

“What?” Emma asked. “Are we stuck?” The sound of the tires being sucked into the mud forced her to abandon the prickly questions that disturbed her. Only sodden gray clouds and bent tree branches, laden with dripping leaves, lay ahead on the narrow road. She wondered if they would ever get to Toul.

“Damn it, woman—not you, too,” John said to her. “You’ve been somewhere else this entire trip.”

“Sir Jonathan!” Virginie yelled from the back, leaning over the luggage tops as she admonished him with a pointed finger. “Use Christian language when speaking to ladies.”

“I’ll not change the King’s English one damn iota to suit you,” he shot back. “And I certainly don’t consider you a lady. I’ve never known a nurse who was.” He pressed the accelerator, slapped the steering wheel, and cursed again. “I’ve had enough of her bloody weather prognostications. Her alleged clairvoyance is no reason to postpone a trip.”

“John, I appreciate your concern in getting me to my husband so soon . . . but I . . . we could have—”

“Please don’t aggravate me! I am agitated enough as it is. I jumped through hoops to find out where your husband was stationed—let alone commandeer an ambulance for two days.” The truck’s wheels sunk deeper into the muck. He disengaged the gearbox, opened the door, and stepped into the rain. “Nurse!” he shouted. “Up front and motor this truck. I’ll push from the rear. Petrol is too precious to waste.”

Emma watched as they sparred over control of the truck.

Virginie, who had been smart enough to wear a raincoat over her uniform, also held an umbrella. John held out his rain-soaked arms and guided the nurse over the tailgate.

She climbed into the driver’s seat, her shoes, lower stockings, and the hem of her raincoat